Sometimes the words just don’t come
And I have to resort to drastic measures.
It might come down to signing off
Another organ
Or limb
To the Devil.
An end to a love affair.
Breaking bones as I’ve had in the past.
I’m willing to opt out
For a distant tragedy
Or someone else’s
Downfall.
But that’s not
What is on the table
Right now.
I have nothing to offer.
No golden birds.
No pharoahs or saints.
No makeshift catastrophes.
The night is silent
Except for the crickets
And rain.
That is it.
The night is cool and wet
And chirping.
But it offers nothing
To me
To write about.
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